


When The Halo Falls

by enleathe



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Compliant, M/M, Snow, Take This To Your Grave (Album), Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 16:45:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13955790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enleathe/pseuds/enleathe
Summary: “Fuck, Trick!” Pete’s worried tone snapped Patrick’s focus back to him. Eyebrows furrowed in concern, Pete reached his hand to stroke his friend’s forehead. “You’re bleeding!”His thumb massaged over his right eyebrow. Right over where the scar is.Or was.





	When The Halo Falls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scarredsodeep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarredsodeep/gifts).



> This is only my 3rd attempt at bandom and 2nd attempt at smut. I'm fragile, so be gentle with your criticism (though I welcome the constructive type). Writing about M/M love as a gay female definitely presents a unique challenge (I'm over here trying to think of sexy ways to say 'cock' without overusing that term)
> 
> All of my love to scarredsodeep for the idea behind this fic and her constant encouragement.

** “HURLEY! HIT THE BREAKS!”

Pete’s voice cut through the sloshing of snow and rubber. That fucking van, that had gotten them from Willamette to Wisconsin to Michigan and back. The same van with the melted window seals from 120 degree heat. The one that four boys slept and screamed and sweated in for nearly two weeks without a break. The same boys that were holding on to any solid surface as the white monstrosity careened on the slick road.

“GODDAMMIT!” Andy roared, turning the wheel like a captain on a ship. Joe braced his hands on the dash, watching Andy with exaggerated eyes.

The van slid off the road, sideways, and began a terrifying drop into a wooded area on the side of the freeway. Andy, triceps bulging, held on, desperately vying for control. He glanced at the speedometer- 70 fucking miles an hour. Amidst trees and logs and piles and piles of wet snow.

A giant oak seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Andy attempted to swerve,causing the van to slide- right at the massive trunk.

The metal crunched in an explosion of bolts and brackets. The glass rained all over the back seats. Pete threw up his arm, attempting to shield his face.

Patrick, however, took most of the impact, frozen in his spot from sheer terror.

 

** “Patrick, stop squirming,” his mother chided. “You aren’t going anywhere until your snow boots are tied and your brother is ready.”

Patrick stomped his left foot down, where, moments before, it had been kicking and tapping around in anticipation.

It was the first major snow of the season for the Chicago area. Patrick loved the snow- the fluffy powder, the sting of the chilly wind, the dilapidated snowmen, the speed of sledding down his suburb’s street.

He turned towards the stairs, hearing Kevin tromping down them. Seconds later he appeared, his red snow suit fitting a bit more snug than last winter.

“Kevin! Let’s go!” Patrick whined.

“Hang on, mister,” his mother tisked. “You still need a hat.”

Patrick pouted his lips at her, wanting desperately to get on with the fun.

His mother jammed his unruly hair beneath a wool beanie, then pecked a kiss onto his nose. “You be careful, little man.” She turned to her oldest. “Don’t be out when the streetlights come on,” she instructed. “And don’t play with those ruffian friends of yours. Patrick is three, not eight like you.”

Patrick huffed. “I’m a big boy, Mommy!” He crossed his arms, glaring his tiny eyes. She couldn’t help but grin.

“Yes, you are, and full of the Stumph Sass.”

Kevin grabbed his brother’s hand, sighing. “I’ll be careful, Mom. I promise.”

The whoosh of the door made adrenaline push throughout Patrick’s little body. He squeezed his brother’s hand and began tugging him with all of his might. Kevin held on, keeping him from getting away as they padded down the snow-covered stairs.

“Where’s the sleds?” Patrick asked. He was walking towards the shed, Kevin still holding on.

“Same place as always, Pat.”

Kevin shoved open its rusted door, sunlight streaming in and illuminating the dust floating around (and piling on) the various items. Patrick broke out in a grin as his red Flexible Flyer glowed, like a beacon among the grunge.

Kevin couldn’t help but grin at this pipsqueak’s euphoria. “C’mon, bro. Let’s sled.”

 

** _Breathe slow. Breathe slow. Breathe slow._

The mantra, in a garbbled version of his mother’s voice, was on repeat in his brain, willing his body to obey. His lungs were stubborn, however, only allowing a sliver of oxygen to enter.

_Breathe, Patrick. In and count._

It was the same thing she cooed into his ear when he was a kid in the middle of an asthma attack. The worst was when he would wake from a dead sleep to find himself gasping and panting, fear mixed in.

 _Patrick!_ He could hear his mother yelling at him, trying to get his attention. _Patrick! Wake up!_

He was surrounded by darkness. Was this what death felt like?

Pain erupted from his cheek, making his eyes snap open. Finally- light.

“Dammit, Patrick! Don’t be dead!” Pete screamed, shaking his shoulders.

It was the same voice that had been rattling around in his head. Not his mother, but Pete.

Patrick lifted his head, looking directly at his bassist, who ceased his violent attack on his friend’s upper body.

“P-ete…” he wheezed. He was still fighting against his biology, drinking down air. Pete’s hands flew from Patrick’s shoulders and into the singer’s pockets, digging around the limited space. Within seconds, Pete extracted the inhaler and pressed it to Patrick’s lips.

“C’mon, Trick. Open up.”

It felt like agony as Patrick wrapped his lips around the hard plastic, too much effort yet not enough.

“Okay, count of three.” Pete’s voice as breathless as Patrick’s body. “One. Two. Three.”

The familiar woosh was only a fraction of a second before the precious medicine filled Patrick’s mouth and careened down his throat. The alveoli burned as they felt themselves being awoken from their slumber.

Patrick was coming around.

Pete removed the inhaler, discarding it on the van’s bench. His hands came to rest gently on Patrick’s cheeks. “Trick. You okay?” He searched his vocalist’s face. “Did you get brain damage? Do you know who I am?”

The fuzz in his brain was finally receding. He had been staring at Pete’s face, but he only just now saw it. Scratches littered his cheeks, mixing crimson and honey. His right eye looked darker than mere smudged eyeliner. His bottom lip paunched out, swollen and slightly bruised.

“Pete?” he asked, voice rough and faint. “What-”

“How the fuck are we alive?” Joe sounded equal parts impressed and astonished, mixed with a little fear. “Hurley?”

Realization dawned on Patrick. He gently shook his head free of Pete’s grip and looked around at the carnage. Pellets of glass drenched the seat and floor. The side next to Patrick was caved in, laying against his left arm. Smoke was wisping from beneath the hood.

Andy’s glasses were nowhere to be seen; his hair was disheveled. Joe was nursing his neck with his hand, obvious whiplash. But both boys seemed to be intact.

“Fuck, Trick!” Pete’s worried tone snapped Patrick’s focus back to him. Eyebrows furrowed in concern, Pete reached his hand to stroke his friend’s forehead. “You’re bleeding!”

His thumb massaged over his right eyebrow. Right over where the scar is.

Or was.

 

** “Snowball fight!” the scream accompanied by a flash of white before beaning Kevin in the shoulder. He glared in the direction from which it came. Jon, Kevin’s friend, howled with laughter.

“Dick move, idiot.” That made Jon laugh harder.

The four other boys came walking towards the brothers, smirks plastered on their faces. “All’s fair in snow and war,” Frank scoffed. Kevin rolled his eyes.

Jon grinned at youngest Stumph boy. “What’s happening, little bro?” He held his hand out. Patrick, grinning, slammed his tiny palm against it. “Whoa, Pat! Gettin’ some rad strength there.”

Patrick’s smile widened. Kevin’s friends adopted him as their little brother, too, since he went pretty much everywhere with his older brother. “Can we sled now?” he asked.

Kevin was dusting off the last of the powder from his shoulder. “In a minute, dude.” But Patrick had waited months for this. He knew that, once the boys started talking (especially about those cootie-ridden girls), they would forget all about playing in the snow.

Patrick was having none of that.

“You’re lucky Jon only hit your shoulder,” William sneered. “He kept bragging about knocking you right in the forehead.”

The right side of Kevin’s mouth turned up. “Only Brendon has a target big enough to hit.” The boy in question, Brendon, glared as his friends laughed.

“You’re just jealous because my brain is bigger than yours,” he chided.

“Pfft. Whatever, BRAIN-don” Frank boomed.

“Eat my shorts, jerk!”

Within the seconds, the boys were good-naturedly wrestling each other, snow flitting down their shirts and across their faces.

Kevin was in the process of throwing William off of him when he saw the flash of red.

Patrick had gone to the edge of the hill, sled in position. He held it steady as he carefully positioned himself inside.

“PATRICK!” Kevin yelled, afraid. The poor kid had never sled by himself; he could get seriously hurt. The rest of the boys jerked to a stop, all looking at their little mascot.

Patrick turned, stuck his tongue out at the boys, and pushed himself down the incline.

The hill was long, getting steeper the further he went. He felt the wind scurry up into his beanie, felt the cold bite at his cheeks.

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAY!” He squealed in delight, barely hearing his brother’s desperate pleas to stop.

He neared the bottom, but his Flyer began to wiggle. His hands, too tiny to steer, pulled desperately at the string in an effort to keep from losing control.

But it was too late, too fast.

As his sled hit the bottom, he felt it skid to the side. He held on with all of his might, his joyous yell turning into a fearful scream.

He just had enough time to see the trunk of the tree before his Flexible Flyer crashed into it, lifting him face first into the bark.

In the seconds between contact and wail of pain, Patrick heard the rapid crunch of snow and cursing of his older brother, getting closer and closer.

 

** “Listen, Rob. We gotta postpone the shoot.” Pete was pacing around the dingy diner, brown blood dried against his cheek as his cell phone pressed against his other. His eyebrows drawn together- his business look.

The band and crew filled most of the restaurant: dingy, sweaty men who were barely speaking above a whisper. Only Marcus seemed to be any sort of normal, gorging himself on a plate of fried greasiness. His boys were okay. He made sure of that first hand as he ripped the van door open (nearly tearing it off the runners), the quartet inside in varying degrees of shock. He had coaxed them from the warped machine one at a time, helping each boy get as mended as possible from a first aid kit.

Joe had his glass of ice held against the back of his neck, his upper body hunched over the table. Andy set beside him and worked medical tape around the arm of his glasses that had snapped off during impact. Flesh-colored band aids muted the tattoos around his left hand, covering the cuts.

“Well, then how the fuck do you expect us to get there by 3:00?”

All eyes, even those not in the convoy, snapped to Pete as his voice rose in shrillness and volume.

Patrick hadn’t said a word since the accident. He heard Chris tell them about how his and Andy’s seat were the “death seats”, that they, by all accounts, should be comatose at the very least.

He worried his right index finger over the butterfly bandages in his eyebrow.

“Ya know,” Joe muttered, adenoidal voice pitches lower than usual, “my life did kinda flash before my eyes.” Andy turned to him, putting the finishing touches on his glasses.

“Yeah? What’d you see?”

Joe smiled, though it looked more like a grimace. “My mom dressing me for my bar mitzvah.” Chris grinned, touched by the purity of his memory. “You?”

Andy shrugged. “All I thought was ‘Thank God they won’t find animal fat in the shit in my pants.” The men around the table chuckled. Joe gingerly turned his head to the right, looking at his vocalist.

“Yo, Patrick. Did you have, like, visions of Elvis Costello coming to personally whisk to you Heaven?”

But Patrick didn’t answer, eyes unfocused but still in the direction of Pete.

They waited a few beats, wanting an answer.

“Let him be,” Andy whispered to his friend. “He’s still out of it.”

Joe tried to shrug but groaned in pain from the movement.

 _All I could see was red_ , Patrick thought. _The sled. The blood that temporarily blinded me. The washcloth Mom used to wipe away the various slick substances oozing down my face._

It had happened 16 years ago, but the events of today made them zoom back. He had hated snow since then, though he had almost forgotten why as he aged. His sister teased him mercilessly, pointing to the stitches and calling him Frankenstein. The scar that came after the healing was no better. Kids tortured him, calling him Harry Potter as they pointed and laughed at the (quite literal) eyesore. Getting glasses was the best thing that ever happened to him, hiding the blemish as well as giving others something else to stare at on his face.

It was part of why he wore hats so low. Why he was too shy to look people in the eye when he talked.

 _And now,_ he thought, _all the anguish is coming back._

“Fine. Send us a fucking car.” Pete’s ire interrupted the black tide of thoughts and memories that rolled through Patrick’s brain. “But it better be able to get us there in one goddamn piece!” With that, Pete slammed his phone shut and threw himself down beside Patrick.

He sighed. “They’re delaying the shoot until tomorrow.” He sounded tired, no doubt worn-out from the insanity of the day. “If we don’t make it, there won’t be a re-take.”

Joe pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Like, do we really need a video for “Grand Theft Autumn”? It’s barely getting radio play.”

Pete gave the guitarist a hard look. “It’s our first legit video. One that doesn’t involve shitty cameras and indie directors who take MJ as payment.”

He scrubbed the good side of his face in frustration. It was at that moment that Brian came up to the table with the camera, light shining. “Dudes,” he spat, “we need some reaction footage. Talk. What was it like? How do you feel?”

Patrick’s eyes widened, frightening and flabbergasted. Surely Pete would tell him to fuck off, let them come down some more, maybe even a few days, before shit like that.

But of course not. Pete, determined to be in the spotlight as much as possible, grinned. “Hell yes. You’re a fucking genius.” He threw his arm around Patrick’s shoulders. “Trick, snap out of it. This is gonna be good shit when we hit the big times- Fall Out Boy Survives Death.”

Patrick sighed, pulling his hat down as low as he could, accepting the throb of pain from his eyebrow rather than the documentation of the wound.

 

**The light blinked to life, showing a slightly less STD-infested haven than they were used to. Pete smiled. “Looks like we might be able to sleep UNDER the covers for once!”. He bounded into the room, throwing his duffle on the bed closest to the bathroom.

Patrick shuffled behind. The ride up had spent the last of his emotional reserve; he had gripped the door of the rental (“A fucking Mustang?” Pete screamed as the sleek machine rolled into the parking lot of the diner. “Is Rob an amature!?”) so hard that he left crescent indentures in the plastic.

He opened his backpack and pulled out a pair of pajama bottoms. Pete was already stripped down to his blue boxer briefs. “You gonna shower?” he asked. Patrick shook his head. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and forget this nightmare of a day ever happened. He wanted to punch his brain until the PTSD from that stupid childhood accident faded away. He wanted to kick his brother in the balls for letting him be so stupid.

He didn’t realize Pete was in front of him until his tan hands landed on his shoulders. “Trick?” he asked, hesitantly. “What’s going through that genius brain of yours?”

Patrick brought his eyes up to his friend’s; he was greeted with inquisition and concern. Patrick almost always was the vocal one, definitely more of a diva than the makeup-wearing bassist (regardless of what the media said). So for him to remain radio silent since the accident, something big was going down.

He just didn’t want to look stupid. Especially in front of Pete Wentz.

He felt a tickle above his eye and went to scratch. Pete’s gaze followed the motions; concern was now replaced with fear. “You’re bleeding again, Trick.” Mother fucking piece of shit body. Patrick closed his eyes. He had to escape this somehow.

“Here, sit down on the bed. I’ll take care of you.” Pete’s voice washed over him like a warm blanket, comforting him. He hated to admit how much of an effect the man had on him.

He opened his eyes and found Pete rummaging through his duffle. “The fuck did Marcus put-” but cut off as his hands stopped digging. “There it is.” The first aid kit.

Pete sat on his knees in front of his friend and opened the small container. Gauze, alcohol wipes, and more butterflies were extracted and placed into his palm. “Not gonna put this shit on the bed,” he mumbled. “Might catch Hepatitis C from this place.”

Patrick grinned. “ ‘s not so bad.”

Pete’s head snapped up, exaggerated shock in his features. “He speaks!” He followed with his signature toothy grin. “And here I was thinking I was going to have to start singing the songs.”

Patrick laughed deep in this throat as Pete closed the kit. “You mean screaming. Everyone knows you don’t sing.” Pete pretended to be offended as he opened the alcohol pad.

“Patrick Stump! I have the voice of a baby elephant, thank you very much.”

It was so nice to be able to relax a bit. He didn’t realize just how tense he had been.

Pete gingerly pulled the old butterflies away and began to ease the pad along the gash. Patrick winced from a combination of cold and sting. Pete brought his other hand to the back of Patrick’s head and began caressing. “Sorry, Trick,” he soothed. “I don’t mean to hurt you.”

Words spoken so tender- Patrick’s heart puddled in his chest. The first time he split his face open, his mother scrubbed furiously, her concern manifesting in anger. Now, he sat, same trauma but much more soothing. Tears threatened to spill over his eyelids. He had been nothing more than an unemotive statue all day, negating to help or speak out….anything. Pete had taken care of everyone. And now, he was still taking care of him.

He didn’t deserve this.

Pete continued to caress as he applied the new butterflies, wiping the excess blood with the gauze. “There ya go.” He admired his work, grinning. “Just call me doc.”

Honey eyes met turquoise; the former laced with wonder, the latter swimming in emotion.

“Trick.” The name barely a whisper from his lips. “Talk to me.”

Patrick swiped his tongue over his lips, parched for things he couldn’t place. Or didn’t want to.

How can this imperfect bastard disregard himself but coddle and care for everyone in his orbit?

The hand in Patrick’s hair stilled, gazes locked. “Please,” Pete begged.

The singer opened his mouth, syllables formed and ready. About the first accident. About the flashbacks. About his fears. But his brain had different plans.

He leaned forward, lips parted, and gently placed them on his friend’s.

Seconds ticked by, Patrick still not truely sure what he was doing. His breath mixing with that of the boy in front of him.

It was the tightening of the hand in his hair that tugged him back to reality.

He snapped his head back. A thousand excuses pooled at the edge of the mouth that had just betrayed him. Blood loss. I’m loopy from lack of oxygenated cells flowing throughout. I’m still in shock. I’ve got a fucked up way of saying thanks-

“Patrick.” Pete’s voice was low, breathy. “Look at me.”

He focused his gaze back to the face of his best friend. Band mate. Soul mate. “Pete,” he started, “I-”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Pete snapped, startling Patrick into silence. “Don’t you even say you’re sorry for that.”

Fuzzy warmth began to emanate from Patrick’s core. “You mean-”

“You were the first thing that bulleted through my head when we crashed.” Words, raw with truth and breathy with fear, flowed from him. “You fucked my life up three years ago in the best way.” His face paused, close enough to see the sweat beginning to bead on Patrick’s brow. “You’re in my skin and my lyrics and my dreams and my scars and every iota of every day. I live for you.”

A pause. A weight hung between them, containing galaxies of what ifs and unspoken words.

“You save me,” Pete continued, quietly, “over and over. Every day. I finally got to return the favor.”

The dam that had held Patrick back, kept his emotions in reserve, crumbled. He surged forward, closing the minute gap between their lips. Each spoke with the opening of their mouths; they answered with the clank of teeth and crash of warm tongues.

 _No more space,_ Patrick thought. _No more distance. Ever again_.

Pete must have read his thoughts; he brought his body flush against the softness of his best friend. Patrick’s body was on autopilot, hands petting and rubbing along the caramel skin of Pete’s back (the bastard was still gloriously unsheathed); he reciprocated, tugging gently at the nape of golden hair while his other hand explored beneath the thin shirt (still stained with blood).

It was feral and beautiful and desperate and too much. It seemed only seconds before Pete was pushing the shirt over his friend’s head (made easier by Patrick’s hat having been discarded earlier), mere moments before the older boy was shimming out of his underwear while deepening the kisses.

Patrick pulled back and simply looked; there kneeled an adonis. How had he denied himself this gift before him for so long? Pete’s face was debauched- lips slick, pupils dark, cheeks slightly flushed. He stretched his mouth into a smile full of promise. “Like what you see?”

Patrick nodded, knowing full well that Pete got off on being the center of attention. But he couldn’t look away. Even when Pete brought his palm to his mouth and licked, hungry and filthy. When it was sufficiently coated, he slowly moved it downward, caressing his chest with his fingertips.

He grasped his dick and emitted a noise that Patrick would later swear sounded like relief. He watched, his own body becoming more interested in furthering the proceedings.

Pete kept eye contact as he slowly stroked his length. “Patrick” he crooned, eyelids drooping slightly. “Tell me you want.”

It wasn’t even a question, more of a reflex within his DNA. Pete = Patrick and vice versa. One simply could not function without the other.

“Jesus,” Patrick awed. This was his. He could take and feel and taste. “C’mere.”

Pete didn’t have to be told twice. He pushed the ginger on to the bed and straddled his (still clothed- what the fuck?) waist. “You called?” He flashed a predatory look.

This only increased Patrick’s desire to rip off his jeans and fuck him senseless.

“Wanna feel.” He reached his hand out, gripping the silky shaft. Pete cast his head back, mouth open.

“God, yes.”

Patrick, young and afraid and extremely horny, pulled slowly. This couldn’t be over too soon. He waited too long.

“Fuck, Trick,” Pete gasped out as Patrick gripped a bit tighter. “Like that.” He pulled his head up, casting his gaze on the beautiful man beneath him.

Patrick groaned as his speed increased, fist grazing the tangle of dark curls at the base. “Pete.” It was a plea and a question at the same time. Pete pulled Patrick’s hand away.

“I’ve got you.” It was exactly what he needed to hear.

Experienced, deft fingers opened the singer’s jeans and cast them aside (giving Patrick a delicious peek of Pete’s ass as he lifted himself up to remove them). He resumed his position astride the pearly thighs.

“What-” Pete began.

“Everything,” Patrick answered. He knew. “Take me.”

Something urgent flared up in the bassist at hearing those words. He growled, nearly ripping Patrick’s underwear in pieces as he discarded them.

Moments later, Patrick’s mind melted.

Pete’s wet, warm mouth enveloped his friend’s cock, bobbing up and down like he was starving for it. His hands clinched the thighs that he had worshiped since Patrick was jailbait. Deeper and deeper he took him, soon hitting the back of his throat. Gagging and slurping. Patrick wanted to hear that again and again.

He heaved himself onto his elbows, wanting to see if reality matched his masturbatory dreams. Pete concentrated on the task at hand, full lips stretched around the dark cock. His shoulder tensed in a rhythm that could only mean one thing- Pete was touching himself.

This was way fucking better than anything Patrick had imagined.

Whines and moans and wet noises filled the room. Patrick felt the familiar burn in the pit of his stomach.

And then. Pete stopped.

“What the fuck?” Edging was not one of his kinks. He needed release.

“Shhhh.” Pete placed his fingers, the ones that had just been around his own cock, onto Patrick’s mouth. Musky aroma filled his senses, dick twitching in response. He couldn’t stop himself- he opened his mouth and began to suck.

Pete, who had been in the process of climbing back atop his friend, faltered. “Fucking- shit. God DAMN, Trick.” He watched, entranced, as Patrick licked around the digits. He tasted so fucking good.

Pete pulled his fingers away, Patrick attempting to chase them with his mouth. “Patrick.” Hips ground together, cock massaging cock. “Please.”

Patrick grabbed the hips above him. “Tell me what you want.”

Pete leaned onto his hands, mouth dropping next to Patrick’s ear.

“Fuck me.”

How the younger man didn’t lose himself at that moment is a feat beyond his comprehension. His hips snapped upwards, the only answer he could muster.

A few more seconds of filthy grinding before Patrick slid from beneath the older man. Pete lay on his back. “Wanna see,” he purred, slinging his arms above his head.

Jesus. This was more than Patrick ever bargained for.

It would be years before he would admit that this encounter was not his first time. That the boys in his high school band class had introduced him to a library of tricks and teases. _Trombone players have the best grip_ , he thought to himself as he grabbed the lube from his duffle bag.

Pete pulled his legs up to his chest and reached to stretch himself open. “Fucking make me yours, Stump.”

With a keen, Patrick pushed his index finger past the initial resistance. “Jesus, FUCK!” Pete screamed. Afraid of going too fast, Patrick watched his friend’s face. He kept his rhythm slow, watching as Pete’s eyes relaxed and face turned blissful. His hands gripping the pillow beneath his head.

A second finger. Then a third. Pete was begging. “Patrick... you- you’re dick. Get your goddamn... dick in me!”

Patrick grabbed his base, attempting to keep his orgasim at bay. “You have no right to have so much control over me,” he griped. Pete opened his eyes and smiled, mischievous and breathy.

“Fuck. Me. Patrick.” Each word enunciated with the pull of his own cock, eyes locked on the tiny man above me.

Patrick was flooded with hunger and lust and possessiveness. He slapped Pete’s hand away. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” he spat, sheathing himself in lube.

Pete grinned, hands above his head once again. “Then wreck me.”

A deep breath and then Patrick was pushing in.

The look on Pete’s face, a combination of surprise and joy and pain, made him that much more eager to be balls deep. But this was Pete, the man who had no problem hurting himself as long as those he loved were safe and comfortable.

He wanted to treat Pete with the same love and gentleness that he had offered him for the past three years.

Slowly, Patrick slid further, feeling Pete adjust. Finally, miraculously, his hips were flush with the other’s.

“You ready?”

Pete moaned. “Do your worst.”

Slow and burning and wet. Both boys were delirious with the feel of the other. “Trick,” Pete sighed. Patrick had lifted his legs closer to his chest, allowing him to thrust that much deeper. “There!” Moans and yelps dripped from swollen lips. “Don’t fucking stop.” And he didn’t. He kept his pace (Pete admired his drummer prowess), thrusting into the spot that made Pete’s body buzz electric.

“Wanted...wanted this,” Patrick said, breathless and wet from sweat. “You’re fucking- ah- fucking perfect.”

Pete’s eyes watered from stimulation, heart hammering from emotion. “Mine.” He gripped Patrick’s shoulders as he increased his speed. “My Patrick.”

Both were chasing the heat building in their groins. Pete grabbed his cock, moving his hand furiously. Patrick leaned in, licking into his lover’s mouth as his orgasm ripped from his body.

As the last waves of arousal washed through him, Pete came undone, come streaking both men’s chests.

Patrick collapsed, enveloping Pete. He felt his cock going soft. But pulling apart meant they had to face this, them. What would become.

Pete’s hand was back in his hair, carding through just as before. “Trick,” he said, voice full of tenderness.

Slowly, Patrick pulled out, sitting on his knees over his friend. A goofy grin spread on Pete’s face.

“Just what the doctor ordered,” he smirked.

Patrick rolled his eyes, flopping down beside him.

Pete immediately wrapped himself around the porcelain body. “Patrick,” he whispered in his ear, planting a kiss to his temple. “I’ll never let you get hurt ever again.”

Patrick huffed at the ridiculous claim. “What, are you going to stay clung to me like bubble wrap?”

He heard Pete’s breathy laugh. “That’s a fantastic idea.”

“No, it’s fucking awful”. Patrick scratched his head. “How would you play your bass?”

“Who needs the bass when I can play you?” Pete began caressing Patrick’s arms. “Besides, I like being on you.”

Patrick turned to face his friend. “That’s fucked up.”

“Nope.” Pete said. “That’s the ultra kind of love, baby.”

Patrick rolled his eyes, smiling back at him.

Both boys knew this would be just the beginning. That they were a cohesive unit.

“But we’re getting a better van,” Patrick stated.

“Done.” The boys fell into a comfortable silence. “Hey! When we get done with the shoot tomorrow, we should go sledding!”

Patrick turned, shooting daggers at the raven-haired boy.

“If you ever want to tap this ass again, you’ll shut your unholy mouth about that shit.”

Pete’s smile filled up his face as he nuzzled into Patrick’s neck. “Yes, dear.”

 

Years later, Patrick would get asked about the (even more prominent, thank you very much) scar in his eyebrow. But, now, he had Pete.

“His halo fell down and bumped him in the head” he told the reporter. Pete shot a wink at the ginger, enjoying the pink cascading his cheeks.

He would have to show Pete how much he appreciated that.

Later.


End file.
